


In Another World: Attack on Titan & Jujutsu Kaisen Oneshots

by ghost_party



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime), 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Professors, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Awkward Romance, Blind Date, Blood, F/M, First Date, Flirting, Fluff, Holding Hands, Love Confessions, M/M, Major injuries, Minor Injuries, Multi, Pining, Possible Sugar Daddy Vibes, Workplace Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghost_party/pseuds/ghost_party
Summary: This is a collection of oneshots originally posted on Tumblr (@ghost-party) as part of my 200 Followers Event. Everything takes place in an AU setting. There will be fluff, spice, possibly some angst, and everything in between. Also: The reader is written as gender neutral unless otherwise specified.
Relationships: Erwin Smith/Reader, Getou Suguru/Reader, Levi Ackerman/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	1. Erwin + Professors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU: Professors
> 
> So much awkward, adorable fluff. There's also a reference to alcohol. This ended up being longer than I expected, and I still felt like there was so much more I could write. There’s an extremely good chance that I’ll end up turning this into an actual fic... 😅
> 
> I'm still accepting requests for this writing event over on Tumblr (@ghost-party)!

It’s a few days before the fall semester begins, and you’ve just finished settling into your office. It’s small, but unlike the communal space you shared with the other TA’s back in grad school, it’s all yours. The wall-mounted shelves have been filled with books, your desk is stocked with sticky notes, highlighters, and your favorite pens, and you even managed to bring some small plants from your new apartment.

Feeling satisfied, despite the constant hum of nervous energy you’re sure will stick around until the first week is over, you sit back in your chair and rest your head against the wall. That’s when you hear it.

_Sometimes I wonder, how I spend  
The lonely night dreaming of a song..._

It’s music, coming from the office next door — an old song you swear you’ve heard before, but you’re not sure where. When you tilt your head, listening more closely, you hear someone moving around.

 _When stars are bright, you are in my arms,_  
The nightingale, tells his fairy tale  
Of paradise, where roses grew...

You’re curious about your mystery colleague. After all, it’s nearly seven o’clock on a Friday evening, and you suspect you’re the only two crazy enough to still be here. While you’ve met the department chair and a few of the other professors, you have yet to meet everyone. And nobody so far has mentioned having the corner office right next to yours.

But then your phone vibrates, reminding you that if you don’t hurry up, you’ll be late to dinner with an old friend who’s passing through town. You grab your bag and keys and quietly shut your office door behind you. The door to your right is closed, but you can see light spilling out from beneath it.

Before you walk away, you take note of the name plate: _Erwin Smith, PhD_

• • •

The first day of classes is a whirlwind. You barely have time to eat lunch, and you empathize with your students as you, too, struggle to locate your various assigned classrooms on a still-unfamiliar campus.

By the time you return to the English department for office hours, you feel frazzled. Carrying a lukewarm coffee in a to-go cup and an armful of student info sheets in labeled folders, you quickly round the corner — and walk straight into someone.

“ _Oof._ ” Your folders tumble to the floor, and coffee splashes onto your shirt. The only reason you don’t lose your balance completely is a large, warm hand at the small of your back, preventing gravity from wreaking even further havoc.

“Are you alright?”

When you look up, you have to remind your brain that words exist and you should use them. Because the man in front of you — who, much to your embarrassment, is holding you rather close — is very, _very_ handsome.

Golden hair, carefully combed back. Bright blue eyes that reflect a concerned warmth. Strong features, sharp cheekbones, a smile that would make anyone melt...

“Y-yes! I’m fine!” Once you’ve found your footing, you glance down at yourself, and then notice you’re not the only one who’s now coffee-stained.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, kneeling down to collect your folders and the many papers that slipped out of them. “I need to be more careful.”

“No, no, it’s my fault,” the man assures you, squatting down to help. “And I keep a spare shirt in my office. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve spilled coffee on myself while grading papers.”

Your fingers brush against his when you both reach for the same folder, and you feel your cheeks grow warm. “Still, though, I’m really sorry.”

You both stand, and he smiles kindly. “Please don’t worry about it. Can I help you carry these? It’s the least I can do.”

You nod and walk down the narrow hallway, with him trailing close behind you. “I’m going to take a guess and say you’re the new hire,” he ventures.

“Is it that obvious?” you ask with a small laugh.

“I’ve been here for a while now, so new faces stand out. Keith said you moved here for the job?”

You’re so flustered, it takes you a moment to connect the name with the stern but friendly department chair. “Yeah. New city, new job, new everything...”

“That’s a lot to be dealing with.”

When you reach your office door and retrieve your keys from your bag, the man behind you chuckles. “So it _is_ you. I wondered, but they haven’t put your name plate up yet.”

“Hmm?” You turn to find him grinning and pointing at the door next to yours — the office of your mystery colleague.

“This is me. Sorry, I should’ve introduced myself — Erwin Smith.” He goes to offer his hand, then realizes your arms are full. You both share an awkward laugh.

You unlock the door and gesture for him to come in. “I’m beginning to think that we both apologize too much,” you tease, dropping the folders onto your desk and tossing the now-empty cup in the trash.

“Only when I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself and made a questionable first impression.” Erwin hands you the remaining folders and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“No, you’re fine! Really, I appreciate the help.” You offer your hand and return his smile. “Let’s try this again. I’m Y/N.”

You notice that his hand is lightly calloused as it closes around yours. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And you can tell from the look on his face that he means it.

• • •

Over the next few weeks, you see more and more of Erwin, as you both adjust to your respective schedules and learn when they overlap. He holds office hours at the same time as you, and since it’s still early in the semester, it’s unusual for students to actually show up. More often than not, you end up in his office. It’s larger and more comfortable — “lived in” he joked the first time you saw it, telling you about the evenings he’s inadvertently fallen asleep on the small sofa, reading after a late grad class.

There are twice as many shelves as there are in yours, all of them absolutely crammed with books. You could spend hours perusing them all. Sometimes, after you’ve finished grading papers, you pick one at random and page through it.

“Where are you?” Erwin will ask, in the midst of his own grading, and you’ll read a line from whatever book you’re holding, playing a little guessing game with him. More often than not, he knows the title and author from the smallest of clues. It’s obscenely attractive.

Then again, _everything_ about him is attractive. You often feel guilty for sneaking glances at him while he’s preoccupied, watching how his brow furrows while writing an email, noticing when he rolls up his sleeves, revealing hard, lean muscle, thinking that he has no right to look so good while wearing reading glasses. On the few occasions he’s caught your gaze, always offering a small smile, you mentally berate yourself. He’s a friend — your first real friend here. But he’s also a colleague. _Keep it professional, Y/N..._

You meet his friends when he invites you to join them for weekly trivia nights at their favorite bar, the Garrison. All of them teach at the university, and they’ve formed their group slowly, over years of faculty get-togethers, awards ceremonies, and one terrible team-building camping trip. Hange, who teaches chemistry, immediately adds you to their group chat, which mostly consists of them spamming everyone with memes and Levi from the history department colorfully (but also endearingly) insulting everyone.

By the time midterms come around, your office hours have become much busier. But you still make time to talk with Erwin, and you’ve even spent time together off campus, when he offered to give you a tour of his favorite museum. When you mentioned it to Hange, they nearly spilled beer all over the table, gasping, “You two _finally_ went on a date?!” Erwin choked, coughing as Levi pounded a fist against his back, and you were positive your face was so hot, it would spontaneously combust. Neither of you mentioned it afterwards.

But that hasn’t changed the fact that you have the biggest crush on him. And you’re not sure what to do about it. His friends — now your friends, too — haven’t exactly been subtle about trying to make something happen between the two of you. But neither you nor Erwin has made a move.

This evening, you’ve both stayed late, in an attempt to catch up on paperwork. You notice him stand and walk to the old turntable in the corner, changing the record. The song that begins to play makes you lift your head from the pile of tests sitting on your crossed legs.

“It’s that song.” When Erwin looks at you, puzzled, you explain, “You were playing it, the first time I was here — before the semester began.” Your face heats up at he continues to stare at you. “Sorry, that’s weird, right? I just... didn’t know anyone else was here, and it was a nice song, and —”

He laughs, raising his hands as he approaches you. “Whoa there. It’s okay, you just surprised me. It’s a favorite of mine — ‘Stardust’ by Hoagy Carmichael. My parents used to dance to it sometimes, when they stayed up late drinking wine, thinking I was asleep.”

“Let me guess,” you say, propping your chin on your hand. “You pretended and then read books beneath the covers.”

Erwin smiles. “Guilty.” He stands there for a moment, seeming thoughtful. And then he asks, softly, “Did you think it was a date?”

You blink up at him, setting your papers aside. “Oh. I... Um... No.” You’ve grown close enough to him that you can now read the subtle shifts in his expressions, and when you see a flash of disappointment, you blurt out, “But I wanted it to be.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I’m just... not great at things like this. Especially with a coworker. I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

Your gaze is fixed on the floor, so you don’t notice him sit beside you until the sofa cushion dips. When you turn to look at him, he smiles. “I’ve been feeling the same way. And I didn’t want you to think we’re only friends because of that — like I had an ulterior motive or something.”

He reaches for your hand but hesitates, allowing you to meet him halfway and entwine your fingers with his. There’s an almost imperceptible sigh of relief before he murmurs, “I like spending time with you. I’m sorry I’ve wasted some of it trying to figure out the best strategy, when I could’ve just... told you that.”

You squeeze his hand and smile. “That sounds an awful lot like an apology, Dr. Smith.”

Erwin chuckles. “Well, then, instead of ‘sorry,’ I’ll go with, ‘Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night?’ And to be clear, this would definitely be a date.”

“Hmm...” You glance at the clock on the wall. “It’s only eight. Is tonight too soon?” When his eyebrows inch upwards, you remind him, “You said you didn’t want to waste any more time. And if you do any more work tonight, you’ll end up doing that thing where you pinch the bridge of your nose over and over.”

He lets out a loud laugh. “Someone’s been paying attention.”

“You make it hard not to.” You stand, pulling his hand to your lips and brushing a soft kiss across his knuckles. It’s worth it, to see his blush deepen. “So... Where to?”

**NOTE:** To see the group texts that happen after this, click [here](https://ghost-party.tumblr.com/post/645142195494682624/congrats-on-200-id-love-to-see-erwin-x-reader) and scroll down! (I'm technologically inept and can't make the images work on AO3. Please forgive me. 😭)


	2. Levi + Roommates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swearing, banter, bad first date (not with Levi), alcohol, a little angst, small confessions... This was fun to write! 😊

“Wow. You’re actually wearing it.”

“What?” Levi looks at you, and then down at his apron — forest green, with a grumpy-looking black cat embroidered on the front. You gave it to him for Christmas last year, but you’ve never seen him use it.

“Yeah, well...” He returns to scrubbing the countertop. “I haven’t done the laundry yet.”

“It looks good on you.” And it does, paired with a black t-shirt that hugs his toned arms and gray sweatpants slung low on his hips.

You didn’t used to ogle your roommate. When you first moved in, he annoyed the shit out of you, criticizing your overall cleanliness and putting a _chore chart_ on the fridge.

You were both exhausted grad students, trying to make ends meet and cling onto whatever sanity you could. In an effort to avoid committing murder, you tried to focus on Levi’s positive qualities. And at some point in the last year, his quirks had become more tolerable — even endearing.

He was an excellent cook. Whenever you went grocery shopping, he always supplied a clear and organized list of ingredients he needed. When you came down with bronchitis around midterms, he brewed tea, ran hot baths for you, and worked with your mutual friend, Petra, to gather your missed assignments. He endured move nights, even when you picked something he had no interest in watching. 

You also began to notice small things about him. How his hair fell across his face while he was reading. How his strong hands flexed while chopping vegetables or pointing at something in your textbook during study sessions. How his shirt clung to his body when he returned home after a workout. How his dark eyes revealed more than his face usually did — amusement, irritation, curiosity...

“Going out?”

His question brings you back to the here and now. You’re standing beside the door, coat in one hand. “Yeah. I have a date with a guy Petra’s been wanting to set me up with.”

Levi makes a derisive noise. “Oh yeah?”

You roll your eyes. “Go on. Say it.”

He peers at you over his shoulder, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Let me guess. It’s her new coworker — that hipster asshole.”

“Don’t be rude.”

“So I’m right.” He turns to face you, looking agitated. “The guy who thinks he’s going to write the next _Infinite Jest_. I didn’t realize wearing pre-faded, fake vintage t-shirts was a personality trait.”

“Are you done?”

“What’s his name again? Zed?”

“Zeke.” You shoot Levi an exasperated look as you grab your keys. “What’s your problem? Seriously. You met him _once_ , when we stopped by the café to see Petra. What, did he piss in your tea?”

Levi bristles, clenching the sponge in his fist, and you wait for his next snarky comment. But it doesn’t come. Instead, his expression flattens into apparent boredom. His gaze, however, is sharp and... something else. 

You open your mouth, so close to asking if he’s okay, but he cuts you off. “Have fun.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mutter. Even as you close the door behind you and walk to the elevator, you can’t stop thinking of how he looked when you turned away. Almost as if he were sad.

• • •

When you walk into the apartment a few hours later, Levi’s sitting on the couch, a book held loosely in one hand. He takes one look at you and says, “That bad, huh?”

You kick off your shoes and drop your coat and bag on the nearest chair. “If you even think about saying ‘I told you so,’ I’m not bringing you a drink.”

“That’s a weak threat.”

After pouring two glasses of wine, you join him on the couch, curling one leg beneath you. “To be fair, it wasn’t the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

Levi sets his book aside. “But...?”

“All he did was talk about himself — the _whole time_.” You groan, dropping your head back against the cushion. “He told me about his novel.” When Levi snorts, you point a warning finger at him. “Don’t you dare. Anyway, he’s ‘shopping it around,’ this epistolary examination of man’s existential shortcomings or whatever. And did you know he wants to get a PhD — in _creative writing?_ In _this_ economy?” 

Levi merely hums, taking a sip of wine. “I just... felt bored, you know?” you say, looking down at your own glass.

 _I wish I had been with you instead._ The words are right there, so close to being spoken aloud. But you hesitate.

Unfortunately for you, your roommate is inhumanly perceptive. You feel him shift, turning toward you. “What?”

“Stop that. It’s creepy.”

“Huh?”

“Reading my mind, or whatever it is you do.”

“Tch...” When you look up, you see that he has one arm propped on the back of the couch, his head resting in his hand. “It’s not my fault you’re so obvious.”

“Is that so?” You’re feeling daring — like you’re finally on the precipice of something, so close to the feelings you’ve been avoiding for months now. “Then tell me, what am I thinking?”

Levi stares back at you, dark eyes seeming brighter in the dim evening light. “That you would have had a better time with someone else.”

You laugh softly. “Damn, you’re good...” Tugging the sleeves of your sweater over your hands, you ask, “Were you thinking that earlier, before I left? Is that why you were so upset?”

“I wasn’t upset.”

When you quirk an eyebrow, he glances away. “Maybe,” he mutters. You patiently wait, knowing how rare it is for him to talk openly about his feelings. You’ve always had the impression that he’s unused to closeness, or, at the very least, unfamiliar with how others tend to express emotions.

“I didn’t want you to go.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

He huffs out a sigh. “Because I’m shit at this. And who am I to tell you what to do? If you want to date some pretentious fuck, why should I get in the way?”

There’s that look again — sadness, along with frustration. “Maybe I want you to get in the way,” you murmur, watching as his eyes widen. “I’m not good at this either.” The relief of being open and honest outweighs your nervousness. “I don’t know how to go from this —” you gesture between the two of you “— to something else.”

“Is that really what you want?”

You set your glass down and turn to him. “You’re blunt. And stubborn, and you always call me on my bullshit. But you’re also kind. Maybe the kindest person I know. You just have your own way of showing it. And I like all of those things. I like you.”

Levi is silent for a long moment, and you’re unsure what he’s thinking. But then he lifts his hand, reaching toward you and gently smoothing back your hair, tucking a piece behind your ear.

“You’re messy.” When you start to protest, he shushes you. “And you’re just as stubborn as me. At least sometimes. But you’re patient. Thoughtful. Not the worst person to live with.” His lips quirk up into the smallest of smiles. “I guess I like you, too.”

“You _guess?_ ” Your tone is teasing. “Can I get that in writing?” 

“Brat,” he grumbles, ruffling your hair before pulling away. He reaches for the remote, queuing up the show you’ve been watching together.

“Do I get to plan our first date?”

“No.” When you sigh, he says, “I already have something in mind.”

You notice that small smile again, barely noticeable in profile. And as the opening credits roll, you settle your hand close to his, in the open space between you. He covers it with his, squeezing gently.


	3. Geto + Villains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write Geto as a gangster or mob boss. There’s flirting, very slight sugar daddy vibes (mostly up to interpretation), mention of injuries, a brief suggestive recollection, alcohol, and blood.

There’s no doubt in your mind that Geto Suguru is a bad man.

You’re working as a server at an expensive restaurant — no prices on the menu expensive, reservations made months in advance expensive, zero mistakes tolerated expensive. It’s a decent job. It helps pay the bills, and the clientele is respectful, if not completely uninterested in your presence. You don’t mind. Small talk has never really been your thing.

Or at least that was true until _he_ showed up.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Geto Suguru had a standing Friday night reservation, occupying the most coveted booth in the whole place. Sometimes he’s alone. Other times, he has a few people with him. But ever since the first night he showed up, he’s always requested you specifically. Your manager has learned by now to just let it happen, assigning you to that table and that table alone every Friday.

Geto is a dangerous kind of handsome, with long, dark hair, a lean, muscular build, and an easy grin that draws you in. The first time you spoke to him, he leaned forward and looked at you like you were the only person in the room, despite the three men seated around him.

And he asked what _you_ would order. What drink you would recommend, which appetizer was your favorite, what else you thought he might like. It was only later, when you were lying in bed, that you realized how much you had wanted to impress him — prove that you could be attentive, helpful, memorable.

Now, he sometimes asks you to surprise him rather than peruse the menu. He trusts your instincts, as well as your palate, and he never fails to compliment your selections. He asks you questions, too, about your life, what you like and dislike, what you do when you’re not serving up plates of Osetra caviar, lobster tail, and filet mignon. 

When you tell him this is one of two jobs you have, trying to make ends meet, he hums thoughtfully, drumming his long, calloused fingers on the table. Later that night, he leaves you an astounding tip, entirely in cash. He’s always been generous. But this... _This_ leaves you stammering, assuring him that you’ll split it between you and your coworkers.

His hand closes around your wrist, his grip just tight enough to prevent you from pulling away. “It’s not for them,” he says, voice quiet and velvety. “It’s for _you_.”

Week after week, he leaves an obscenely-large tip. And you’re grateful — flattered, too. But you’re also curious. You have no idea what it is he actually does, though you suspect it toes the fine line between disreputable and illegal.

When his sleeves are rolled up, you can see tattoos — serpents with wide open mouths, fangs bared — winding down his strong forearms. His knuckles are occasionally bruised, and once, when you noticed a cut on his cheek, he smiled and claimed he had been careless while shaving. Then there’s that look in his eyes, distinctly predatory, like that of something lethal and hungry, lying in wait.

You can’t explain why you find all of it so attractive. You’ve tried, over and over, to ignore your growing feelings, telling yourself that you don’t want to be the moth to his flame, burning up in the pursuit of something bright and enthralling. But you _do_ want that. It’s as if he’s already captured you, and instead of escape, all you can think of is more, more, _more_.

On a night when he’s alone, as you pour him another glass of red wine, a vintage that costs more than your monthly rent, he asks, “When does your shift end?”

By now, you’re so used to his questions that the answer rolls off your tongue with barely a thought. “In twenty minutes.”

He leans toward you, sliding a hand across the table, palm up, as he fixes you with that heady, intoxicating gaze.

“Let me take you out tonight.”

It’s not a question, but it’s not an outright demand either. He seems to be testing you, pushing to see whether or not you’re interested in something beyond your current arrangement.

And you are. There’s no point in denying it, not when you find yourself thinking about him at all hours of the day — sometimes in ways that make your cheeks heat with excitement and shame.

Slowly, you slide your hand into his, fingertips brushing against his palm. “Okay.”

He grins, and his teeth somehow look sharper in the dim restaurant lighting. “I’ll be waiting.”

You end up at a crowded nightclub, someplace you’ve never been. After several drinks at the bar, the two of you move to the dance floor, bodies pressed together, his hands firm against your hips. One slides to the small of your back, pulling you even closer, and he grins down at you with a brazen, hungry look on his face.

But then his gaze shifts, focusing on something over your shoulder. Before you can turn to look, he bends down, dragging his lips along your jaw. You let out a tiny gasp, and he chuckles.

“I have to take care of something,” he says, directly into your ear so you can hear him over the pounding music. “I’ll be back soon.”

You watch dazedly as he vanishes into the crowd, wondering what he meant. Deciding to pass your time at the bar, you find a stool and absently scroll through the notifications on your phone. Nothing seems to sink in, the words blurring on the screen. It might be the alcohol, but you suspect, more than anything, it’s the feeling that something is happening — and you need to see it. You need to see _him_ , the true face of him behind the mask you know so well.

You find him in the alley next to the club, leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. As you approach, you notice a dark, glistening stain on his hands, and flecks of it across his face. There’s something — no, _someone_ — crumpled on the pavement behind him, a broken heap of a man. In the dark, you can’t tell if he’s even breathing.

“Curious thing, aren’t you?” Geto says with a chuckle, holding his cigarette between two fingers.

“What happened?”

He exhales a long stream of smoke. “I hate to mix business with pleasure. But sometimes it’s necessary.” Tilting his head, he stares at you, a challenge in his eyes. “Now’s your chance to run, kitten, if this isn’t what you want. But if I had to guess... I’d say it is.”

The realization that he’s been watching you just as closely as you’ve been watching him is a pleasurable one. He’s seen your mask, and he knows what’s beneath it — that dark little part of you that no one else can see. No one but _him_.

You reach into your bag and retrieve a tissue. When you take one of Geto’s large hands in yours and begin to wipe away the blood, you feel him relax into your touch, fingers gently tracing across your skin.

Looking up, you find his face inches away from yours, his breath warm and smelling of smoke and whiskey. “I think I’m going to keep you,” he murmurs with a languid smile.


	4. Reiner + Fake Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this request, which is probably why this oneshot ended up being 2.8K... 😂 This story takes place in a modern AU. There’s alcohol, swearing, physical affection, bed-sharing, mention of depression and parental neglect, and a brief recollection of coercive behavior.

Every summer, you and your high school friends spend a weekend at a cabin on the lake close to where you grew up. With all of you now living in different cities, it’s an opportunity to get together, catch up, and relax. You’ve always looked forward to it... until now.

“Is it too late to say I can’t go?” You’re sitting on the couch with Reiner, trying to ignore your suitcase, already packed and sitting beside the front door.

“Yes,” he replies, draining the last of his beer. “Come on, it won’t be that bad.”

“Porco’s going to be there. With his new girlfriend. You know he’s going to be a little shit about it.”

You’re not sure if you can handle teasing jabs from your ex-boyfriend _and_ watching him shove his tongue down a stranger’s throat. It’s not because you still have feelings for him. That ship sailed months ago. The idea of it just feels somewhat nauseating.

Reiner frowns. “Yeah, I know. But I’ll be there with you. Just do what I do and ignore him.”

It might be the alcohol, or something in his words, that inspires the idea. But regardless, you turn and look at him. “This is crazy, but... what if you... pretend to be my boyfriend?” When Reiner’s eyes widen, you quickly assure him, “Just for the weekend! I know, it’s stupid, I _know_. But I...”

“You want to make him jealous?”

“Maybe? Or prove that I’m not still single and pathetic, almost a year after breaking up...” You groan and flop back onto the pillows. “I’m horrible, aren’t I?”

“You’re not pathetic, and you’re not horrible.” He hesitates. “But I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“It’s definitely not,” you admit. “Pieck would probably believe it. She’s been wanting us to date for years now. Same with Bert and Annie.” You miss the slight flush in Reiner’s cheeks as he stands, heading to the kitchen for another drink.

“Zeke would know,” he counters. “He’s like a human lie detector.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think he’d say anything.” You sit up and lean over the back of the couch, resting your head on your arms. “If you really don’t want to, it’s okay. But it might be fun.”

You watch as Reiner walks back in, seeming deep in thought. He’s been your closest friend for as long as you can remember. But some small part of you is curious to know what it might be like, to be something more than that, even just for a few days...

He sits down beside you, and you give him a pleading look. “One weekend. I promise. Then everyone will go home, and things will go back to normal.”

Reiner sighs but then offers you a half-smile. “Alright, you win. One weekend. Let’s do it.”

• • •

When you and Reiner arrive at the lake the next morning, you enter what you call “Couple Mode.” But you very quickly come to a startling realization: Even as your fake boyfriend, he’s acting pretty much the same as he always has.

He rubs your shoulders when you grumble about the long drive, carries your luggage without asking, and holds the cabin door open for you, placing a hand at the small of your back when he joins you inside.

Pieck immediately notices your increased closeness and smiles warmly, asking how you’ve both been — and how long “this” has been going on. Bertholdt seems excited, in his own quiet way, and even Annie eyes the two of you, her lips curled up at the corners.

As Reiner suspected, Zeke seems to know better, shooting you a smirk as he walks past, carrying bottles of whiskey and vodka to the kitchen.

And then there’s Porco, sprawled on the sofa with his new girlfriend, staring at you so hard, you’re surprised his gaze hasn’t punched a hole straight through you.

You’re distracted when Zeke walks back in and says, “Your room’s at the end of the hall upstairs.”

“Our room? _One_ room?” You blink at him. Neither you nor Reiner had told any of them ahead of time that you were now a couple. There should have been enough rooms for both of you to have one to yourselves.

“Eren and his friends decided to tag along, do some hiking, boring teenager shit.” Zeke grins. “What’s the problem? Don’t want to share a bed with your boyfriend?”

Before you can respond, Reiner interjects. “Sounds great. Come on, Y/N.” You trail behind him up the stairs, mouthing _“I hate you”_ at Zeke as you walk past. He merely winks.

“He did that on _purpose_ ,” you hiss, walking down the hall. “If things were different, he probably would’ve had me share a room with Pieck.”

“You still can, if you want.”

Reiner sounds strangely distant, and you notice his grip tighten on the handles of your bags.

“No,” you say, touching his shoulder gently. “It’ll be like our sleepovers when we were kids. Remember?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah... Just like that...”

• • •

The rest of the day passes quickly. Zeke rents a pontoon boat at the nearby docks, and you all pile onto it, carrying beach towels, a radio, snacks, and several coolers full of water and contraband booze poured into plastic juice bottles.

After cruising around the lake, you pick a spot to stop for a while. Porco makes a show of stripping off his shirt and then tossing his shrieking, bikini-clad girlfriend into the water. The way he shoots you a look over his shoulder — somehow both cocky and pouting — causes Reiner’s arm to tighten around your waist.

Bertholdt and Annie join them, keeping their distance from the excited splashing, and Pieck lies on one of the padded benches, stretched out in the sun like a lazy cat. Zeke reclines at the wheel, a worn-out paperback held open in one hand.

And you and Reiner sit together at the front of the boat, gazing out at the lake. He seems more relaxed now, leaning back, his face tipped up towards the sky. He’s wearing dark green swim trunks and an unbuttoned shirt, revealing lean, sculpted muscles.

Sometimes you think he hasn’t changed all that much since high school. But looking at him now, you know he has. He’s taller, his softer edges more finely honed, and he always has a bit of scruff on his cheeks, unlike the clean-shaven boy you remember.

As if sensing your eyes on him, he turns to you and smiles. “You okay? Want to get in the water?”

“Not really.” You snuggle into the warmth of his shoulder, seeking out that slip of bare skin between his collar and neck. “I’m fine right here.”

He kisses the top of your head, the softest brush of lips against hair. “Me, too.”

It’s been less than a day, and already, the lines between you are starting to blur. Maybe it’s because it all feels so familiar. There’s very little exaggeration in his actions, his boyfriend persona almost entirely overlapping with the real Reiner Braun. It’s unexpected and terrifying and exciting all at once, and you have to remind yourself that this isn’t real. _One weekend. I promise._

• • •

That evening, you step away from the bonfire, where Pieck is reminiscing about a senior prank gone horribly wrong — something involving spray paint, super glue, and Principal Magath’s portrait that hung in the school library. Closing the patio door behind you, you quietly pad through the living room, heading for the kitchen. But then you hear two voices.

You peer around the corner to find Reiner and Porco standing in front of the fridge. It’s clear that this isn’t a pleasant conversation, but before you can do anything, Reiner says, “You’re here with someone else, Pock. Why do you even care?”

Porco bristles at the nickname. “Because of course it’s _you_. I always knew it would be, what with the sappy way you look at her.”

Reiner ignores his taunt. “If I remember correctly, _you_ broke up with _her_. She’s free to date whoever she wants.”

“Yeah, well...” Porco scoffs. You can tell from his posture, and the way he jabs a finger into Reiner’s chest, that he’s drunk. “If you want my sloppy seconds, she’s all yours, buddy.”

It happens so fast, you have to stifle a gasp. One minute, Reiner’s standing there, and the next, he has Porco shoved against the wall. His face is contorted with anger as he warns, voice low, “ _Watch your fucking mouth_.”

Porco blinks up at him, mouth agape. When Reiner pulls back, he stumbles out of his reach, running a shaky hand through his hair. Without a word, he turns on his heel, headed straight toward you. But you manage to duck into the nearby bathroom just in time, watching as he walks past. He looks upset, dazed, and more than a little embarrassed. You hear the patio door open and close, and then Reiner, someplace close by, heaves a sigh. “Shit...”

He exits the cabin a few minutes later, and you lean against the bathroom wall, trying to process what the hell just happened.

• • •

It’s two in the morning by the time you brush your teeth and change into pajamas. When you walk into your shared bedroom, you find Reiner, wearing boxers and an old football t-shirt, retrieving some blankets from the tiny closet.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll sleep on the floor. You take the bed.”

“Reiner, no.” You reach out and still his hands. “We can both sleep in the bed. It’s fine. It’ll be warmer, too.”

He gives you a strange look, seeming almost nervous. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

You offer him a reassuring smile. “With you? Never. Besides, is it really that different from when we fall asleep on your couch while watching a movie?”

His laugh sounds strained. “I guess not...”

But when you’re both lying beneath the covers, you realize it _is_ different — especially when it’s a twin-sized bed rather than a large, comfy sectional.

Reiner is lying on his side, as close to the edge as possible. It’s almost comical, watching him try to find a position that accommodates his large frame and still gives you space.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” you ask, breaking the silence.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, half-sitting up. “I’ll —”

“No, stop.” You reach out and grab his shoulder. It’s warm and firm beneath your hand, and you feel a jolt of something in the pit of your stomach. “Just... come over here.”

You pat the bed next to you, and he lies down, posture still stiff. With a huff, you grab his arm and pull it around you, hesitating once to ask, “Is this okay?” He nods, and you tug him closer, until his chest is pressed against your back.

“Now I don’t have to worry about you falling out of bed and cracking your skull open,” you mutter, trying to ignore the heat spreading across your face.

When he chuckles, you can feel it, and the sensation is both comforting and thrilling. “Like I said, just like a sleepover...” you say. At this point, you’re mostly trying to convince yourself.

“We’re not kids anymore,” Reiner replies softly, making your insides feel as if they’re doing a somersault.

You lightly kick back against his leg. “I know that. This does feel... different.”

He hums, and his head inches forward, tucking yours beneath his chin.

His steady breathing begins to lull you to sleep. He’s big and warm and safe, and he feels like _home_ , more than anything or anyone ever has. The realization is fuzzy amidst your growing exhaustion, but it fills you with a peculiar kind of joy.

You almost miss his words as you drift off. They’re quiet and soft, like an exhale of breath.

“ _I love you_.”

• • •

When you wake up the next morning, you’re alone. You push away your disappointment and get dressed, following the smell of pancakes downstairs to the kitchen. Bertholdt turns from the stove, and you can’t help but smile, noticing the “ _Hot Stuff Coming Through_ ” apron he’s wearing.

“Pancakes?” he asks, and you nod. As your busy yourself with pouring a cup of coffee, Annie comes up beside you, leaning in to murmur, “Porco and Hanna left an hour ago.”

“What?” You look up at her, surprised. “They’re not coming back?”

“He said she had a work thing that came up.” Annie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I think he and Reiner got into it last night, and he was feeling weird about it.”

“You know how he gets,” Bertholdt says, holding up a bag of chocolate chips. You nod, and he sprinkles some into the batter. “He’d rather run away than apologize.”

You nod absently, sipping your coffee. When you sit down at the dinning room table a few minutes later, Zeke nods at you over his book, Pieck waves cheerfully, and Reiner looks up at you, concern etched across his face. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” You sit down beside him and poke at your food. “Annie told me Porco left.”

“Oh... Yeah, he did.”

You’re quiet all the way through breakfast, listening to the others talk about going kayaking or playing beach volleyball. When the time comes to clean up, you offer to handle the dishes, and Reiner silently joins you, washing while you dry. 

You’re sure there’s a better way to bring it up, but you’re so preoccupied, those three little words running on repeat through your head, that you simply blurt out, “Did you mean it?”

Reiner glances at you, his brow furrowed. “What?”

Your grip on the mug you’re drying tightens. “What you said last night.”

Instantly, his expression shifts to one of shock. He nearly drops the sponge in his hand and stammers, “Uh, I... I thought you were asleep...”

“Is that why you said it?”

He stares at you for a long moment. “Yeah... It sort of... slipped out. After yesterday. Being so close to you, it felt...” A dark flush colors his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t want something real.” He grabs a nearby towel and dries his hands, leaning against the sink. “But I did — I do. It’s why I tried to say no, at first, to doing this. I didn’t think I’d be able to fake what’s already real for me, and then just... pretend like it never happened. I have a hard time saying no to you, though, so...”

You set the mug down and realize you’re trembling, your heart beating a mile a minute. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs, and the sadness in his face pierces right through you. “I thought you deserved someone better than me.”

You know he’s talking about his struggles with depression and self-confidence, the lingering pain of his childhood, growing up with a mother who never made him feel like he was enough and a father who never wanted him.

Without thinking, you reach up, hands gently cradling his face. “Hey... Look at me.” He does, and your murmur, “There’s no one better than you.”

Your thumb strokes along his cheek, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut. It’s so sweet and endearing — so perfectly _him_. 

Even in high school, beneath his wise-cracking, popular jock façade, he was soft and kind. He was the one who cried with you when your grandmother died, never letting go of your hand throughout the whole funeral. He was the one who made mix CDs of songs you both loved and belted in the car on the way home from movie nights at Bertholdt’s house. He was the one who punched your prom date when he tried to force you into the backseat of his car, knocking out two of his teeth. He was the one who wrote you notes in college, tucking them into your jacket pocket or bag whenever you met up for coffee at the campus library.

He’s always been there for you — _always_. The realization feels stupidly simple and long overdue. How could what you feel for him, what you’ve felt for him since high school, be anything other than love?

“You’re more than enough. And I don’t want to pretend.” He opens his eyes, and you smile up at him. “Say it again?”

His arms slide around you, pulling you close. “Say what?” he asks quietly, kissing your forehead. “You’ll have to be more specific...”

You rest your hands on his chest, tracing the faint letters on his t-shirt. “Mm... I think it went a little something like this.” Standing on your tiptoes, you angle your lips toward his ear, brushing against his stubble. “ _I love you_.”

He squeezes you so tight, you gasp, and as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, he whispers back, “I love you, too.”


End file.
